


Autre Temps

by Unquiet_Grave



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bad Flirting, Budding Love, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Humor, Divergent Timeline, Drama & Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Flying, Headcanon, Implied Sexual Content, Non-Linear Narrative, One Shot, Phobias, Scenes and Drabbles, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-12-30 13:00:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18315755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unquiet_Grave/pseuds/Unquiet_Grave
Summary: He grinned at the small yellow aircraft teetering like a drunkard."Let's get you down, princess. This is my territory. You have no business in the sky."Lightning cracked, just outside his rain-streaked window, followed by a cannon blast of thunder he could hear, even over the Affirmation's drone.Truth be told, if he didn't get them both down alive, neither did he.





	Autre Temps

**Author's Note:**

> So, idk what this is, really. I had plotted out much, much more, but I decided to end it the way I did because I liked it better this way. There were one or two more scenes I had in mind, that I may get around to writing as separate one-shots or maybe part of a collection.
> 
> Lots of ideas, and not quite enough time. Time is my accursed enemy, and I will master him one day. I hope this is enough for now to entertain some people, though. Not sure if any of these scenes or concepts have been done before, but there are way too many fics on here for me to read them all, so please forgive me if that's the case. I tried to keep it original. As original as fan-fiction can be, lol.
> 
> Sad to see no more DLC or attention on this game, it really was a treasure, of a kind, and I think about it often. Sometimes it just has to come out. ;P -Graves

"Nick? Nick Rye! Can you hear me?"

Static hissed, through the fuzzy padding of the headset. Rook tore the whole thing off, throwing it aside.  

"Piece of shit! Why'd I even steal this thing?"

The yellow plane, as if offended by her outburst, banked sharp enough to blur the clouds into gray paintbrush strokes. Her stomach became a hamster wheel, spinning on itself.

"Gah! I didn't mean that; I swear."

The only good thing about being stuck in the sky: no cultists around to reward her profanity with bullets. Well, that and the view, which she couldn't fully appreciate at the moment.

"Come on...come on..."

She gripped the uncooperative controls instead, fighting to stabilize the stolen aircraft. Sweat soaked her biker gloves, and she was thankful for their **Patented Rubber Grip!™**. The cooler temps, or maybe just the altitude, were enough to dampen her wrath, which had spurred the day's events in the first place, granting her the hubris needed to believe she could steal (she preferred the term 'forced sharing') from a heavily-armed outpost and fly a plane _._  Like a stunt woman who'd hijacked the scene and promoted herself to main actress in some over-budgeted action flick. 

_Action movies have plane crashes. Explosions. Bad CGI._

_Death._

Rook gulped. Best hope she was the leading lady, and not an extra. If she was the main actress, she'd received no training, no rehearsal. Her coach was stuck on the ground, muted. Air pockets punched upwards, against the wings, lifting her out of her seat and slamming her down rudely. If she made it out of this, she'd have some nice Rorschach blots to show Addie and Mary May the next time she took too many shots at the Spread Eagle. So in other words, tomorrow, assuming she was still alive to single-handedly fund the lower-shelf whiskey industry.

"Aw, yiss! That's more like it."

Her efforts paid off. Few blessed seconds, the plane coasted, sittin' pretty. She regained some of her composure, venturing a gander out the windshield. Far below, the leaves of the trees and the prairie grass rippled in unison, like golden waves in an increasingly uncalm sea. Paired with the backdrop of the Whitetail Mountains, the ceiling of open, blue sky, the smooth, glistening, seductive twists of the Henbane, it all made for a heavenly view. Hard to believe there was any of what she referred to as 'the craziness' going on.

_Is this what he gets to see, all the time? No wonder he likes it. Not another soul around, to attack you, boss you around, tell you how to think or what you did wrong. Just you, the sky, your plane, your-_

-years of pilot training!

Another gust rocked her, and Rook jolted back to reality. She ground her molars so hard her fillings could've sparked. _Up to my neck in bullshit and clouds, and my head's still not right. Get a grip already._

Thousands of feet up in the airspace, everything below the size of children's toys, her mind scrambled with the puzzle in front of her. The roads below were vaguely familiar. Okay, that was a good place to start. She should know them by now. Hadn't she burned enough rubber escaping Peggie patrols, hadn't she taken enough joyrides with Grace and Sharky, peeled-out enough doughnuts near John's compound at three in the morning (never underestimate the power of sleep deprivation), not to recognize the old escape routes?

Holland Valley was more than roads and marks on a map to her, though.  _Hard to believe I've been stuck in this place for almost three months now._

Rook squinted at the valley that had been, despite everything else, her refuge. The sun was setting, deepening the lines on the map. Her front teeth gnawed on her bruised, tender lip, her eyes focusing on the foreground. There was the cluster of stacked blocks, Fall's End, on the horizon. Where, somewhere above the Spread Eagle, a warm room with a spare bed were waiting. And if some bar patron had stumbled up and claimed those for the night, as folks in these worrisome times were feeling thirstier than usual, there was always a mattress in Pastor Jerome's church, recently promoted to Central Command, oh-so-vital for their little operation.

There, farther away, was the pumpkin farm, the apple orchards, where she'd found Boomer, all alone. He had been her first real companion in all this (Dutch might have protested, but he wasn't the 'friend' or even 'pleasant acquaintance' type).

And, of course, not long after making her first canine friend, she had heard _his_ voice. The Handsome Jerk from the Billboards.

The dreamy smile that had crept to her lips fell away. There, out the door window to her left, was the great eyesore: John's obnoxious 'YES' sign. Her hand, of its own accord, rose to touch the chain of delicate bruises on her neck, her brow creasing over. The sign _mocked_  her, as it had since she'd first made tracks in his territory. No, we certainly couldn't forget that. The sign seemed to do it, even now, exclaiming the definitive answer to whether she would use up the last of her luck and end the day in a flaming pile of rubble.

If only she had a cat she could loan a few lives from. Hell, forget a cat. These days she needed a damned lion.

Thunder roared, sending vibrations throughout the cockpit, up the controls, into her white knuckles. Was it supposed to do that? Oh, God _._  As if she didn't have enough to worry about, there was the fortress of towering black clouds to the west, the flickering, forked tongues of lighting that might even give the intrepid veteran Jacob pause. It was sweeping over the land, a beast unleashed from hell. Maybe a little Old Testament prophet's gift, especially for her?

She was being sour, of course. 'Tough shit? Don't quit!', as her old police instructor, a concise man with the uncanny gift of turning normal human words in onomatopoeia, used to bark. Okay, fine. A storm was about to break, at the exact moment she decided to steal a plane from Mr. Psycho McPsychopants, and it was likely going to blow her out of the sky, if she didn't split her atoms all over an empty field, first.

But she was a Deputy of Hope County, for Christ's sake. She had been through more in the past few weeks than most army veterans (oh how Jacob would beg to differ, but screw that guy). She could handle her first time flying without any help. She could handle anything! She could-

"FUCK!"

Vwoom! The plane's nose dipped sharply into another dive. Rook gritted her teeth, remembered the painfully short lesson Nick had taught her before Mistress Fate discovered them and cut him off, accelerating ( _going faster always helps, right?_ ), angling the nose upward. Or what she hoped was 'up'. It was hard to tell when one had never flown before, not even in a commercial jet. She had no idea how to properly read any of the gauges, and the horizon was playing tricks on her eyes.

She must have leveled out, because her guts settled, and the gauges appeared...balanced?  _Eh, why not, we'll go with that_. She seemed to have pulled it out of the roller-coaster descent, for the time being. Rain began to splatter against the windshield, as tears of frustration pricked in her eyes. _Oh my God, I forgot to blink._ She laughed hollowly. Where was the skilled pilot when she needed him? More important, why had Nick's signal cut off, all of a sudden? Was it the storm, or something else?

A new thrill of fear ran through her, like a fever. Had the Pegs attacked their home? Maybe a little retribution, for escaping John and starting this whole fiasco in the first place?

_Excuse me for not wanting to be tortured and mutilated. Although, given the way things went, I think somebody threw me a Hail Mary, and I caught it._

Most critical of all, what had her so badly shaken that she felt more like a scared little girl, rather than a quick-witted, disaster-trained police officer?

_Why, why did I think it was a good idea to sneak into his ranch and steal this thing again?_

A flash of lightning lit up the evening sky. The 'YES' sign glowed for a moment, visible on the mountains out the window to her left.

_Ah, that's right. Because he's a Grade-A dick. The Ryes didn't deserve to have their livelihood stolen, especially with a little baby girl on the way. These people don't deserve anything John's done to them._

_...Neither do I._

It didn't help that he had left his keys right there, on the dresser. _I mean, damn_. All she had to do was roll over in bed and take 'em, while he got dressed with that infuriating (charming) smirk on his face, his fingers pulling the clasp on his belt tight.

Only minutes prior, he'd been smirking with his fingers someplace other than his toolbox. That had been a major surprise. The other, much sweeter surprise he'd given her, instead of treating her to his usual conversion methods, had been appreciated, too. She'd have called it the lesser of two evils, but if what they'd done to each other was wrong, she didn't wanna be right.

The controls went slack in Rook's hands. The plane rewarded her with a shudder, tilting so bad the mountains rotated, snapping her back faster than Joseph could smack a Bible upside her face.

"Bet my last dollar. Guy pulls that crap on _every_  halfway decent-looking girl he gets in that creepy dungeon," Rook growled, crushing the yoke in her fists. She then uttered the sacred words many a burned woman with night-after, second thoughts hath uttered:

"Fuck him. And fuck this."

In response to her challenge, invisible downdrafts, galloping from the furious skies, howled and battered against the metal frame. Judging by the godawful racket, the aircraft couldn't decide if it was made of tinfoil or single-ply toilet paper. After a few agonizing seconds, wondering whether her family would be informed about her violent demise, or if Joseph Seed would keep it hidden from them, she pulled the plane from its suicidal dive, leveling it out.

She wished she could say the same for her poor heart. Still, she was alive. She nodded to the statue, the size of her thumb at that distance. It somehow managed to convey its disdain.

"Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint. Father."

She grinned, an unstable, wild-woman gnash of her teeth. Not bad, for someone who had no idea what most of the stuff in the cockpit did. She wasn't sure her ticker could handle something like that again though. Better not wait for the next onslaught. Grabbing the headset, she tried again:

"Nick, are you there? Come in, Nick! I could really use some help up here, man."

Nothing. It dawned on her. The Ryes' home was still woefully far. She was stranded, if such a word could be used, about to be swallowed by a tsunami of a thunderstorm. Funny, out of an entire sadistic gallery of ways she'd portrayed her own death in Hope County, this wasn't one of the exhibits. Maybe she should search the glove compartment for the manual and give speed-reading another try.

Her brief moment of gloating died a quick death. The plane charged downward like a hound after a squirrel, ripping the controls free. The headset slipped from her fingers, onto her lap.

"Aw man," she groaned, her veins glacial with ice. "I am gonna die. For real." 

Nothing objected to that statement. In fact, the plane seemed to nod in agreement, sending her strained nerves into a new state of overdrive. G-force lifted her out of her seat, as the nose of the plane bobbed up and down, really feeling the Holy Spirit, and her sinful head almost smacked the roof. What were those things called again? Oh right, seat belts. She probably should have used one. Then at least most of her body could be identified in the wreckage, as opposed to splattered all over the glass.

Stubborn tears finally spilled over, pouring down her cheeks. _What a wretched way to go_. Against her yammering heartbeat, the drone of the engine, the roar of (not-so) distant thunder, a familiar, gleeful voice rang over the radio:

"That's right, Deputy. Up, _good._ Down, _bad_."

Her fingers flew out and snatched up the unruly headset, jostling the receiver to crank the volume. She didn't have to ask who the newcomer was. A glance over her shoulder, at the big, silver plane, lazily tailing her like a hawk zoning in on its dinner, was all she needed.

"John?"

Silence. _Amused_ silence.

"Ugh. John."

Rook cringed, swallowing some dignity. Her throat was a tad sore. Maybe she shouldn't have gone at it with such gusto, but then again, the look on his face was almost worth everything...

Wait, what was she thinking? She must have lost all her damn sense, but she was finding it again all right, with each shake, each EKG-tanking plunge.

"Of all our...unusual...methods of meeting," John remarked. "This has got to be the most fun!"

He lowered his tone to something more conspiratorial. "Well, second-most, anyway."

There was that cringe again. She exhaled, slowly, to prevent from popping.

"Congrats weirdo, you found me," she hissed. "Come...to take back...what's yours?"

More silence. She froze. _Please God, n_ _ot again. I can't take the silence._

Then:

"I'm not up here for the view, Amelia Earhart." 

She scowled.

"Yeah, well, in case you forgot, this belongs to the Ryes'." 

She hoped the microphone could detect her acidity. The wind was shaking her so bad now, it was hard to speak. She added,

"I'm...ugh!...putting it back...where it belongs. It's not nice, to steal other people's toys."

"Yet again proving what an unapologetic hypocrite you are. You wouldn't be in this mess, you know, if you had just left it alone," he admonished smoothly, ignoring anything about Nick and Kim. A pointless gesture, to drag her across the coals, if his intent was to shoot her out of the sky. Give the folks at Fall's End some fireworks that evening.

_That is his intention, right?_

"Yeah, well, m-maybe you should be...more careful...where you put your keys."

Her tone wasn't just sarcastic, but suspicious as well. Hopeful. He really _had_ just laid them out, right there, almost for her to see. As if a man who couldn't abide a guilty conscience were in need of little 'accident', should he decide to disobey orders and let his prisoner go.

"You should have stayed," he said casually. "I wasn't done with you yet."

Did he mean with her atonement, or...? Rook stiffened, earning a bump on the side of her head from the rocking window. As if things weren't all warped and confused enough, she had a sore lip, a necklace of love bites, and the Holland Valley's local playboy had another notch in his fancy leather belt. It set her blood to boiling.

Did he _really_ think he could get what he wanted with sex? Though, she hadn't exactly done the proper cop thing and negotiated her way out of there. Whitehorse would definitely have some concerns about her oral tactics.

Before she could fire vitriol back at him, wind slammed her, pummeling her with a closed fist. She dropped the headset, letting it slap the metal by her knees, and death-gripped the controls. The hamster in her stomach launched out of the atmosphere, flung into orbit, and bile rose in her throat. Her heart hammered wildly for freedom in its cage.

"Easy!" John called from the dangling headphones, sounding a world away. "You're over-correcting!"

She was so pissed by his critique, she managed to scramble the headset back on.

"Coming from you, that's r-AIIIIIEEE!"

And she was cut off, by her own shriek.

Elsewhere in the churning skies, John sighed in annoyance. Then, his throat constricted, as Rook's wings did a series of wobbles and droops, indicative of a pilot in serious distress. Or a rookie, in over her stubborn little head. His pulse, which always beat to a steady tune (roughly to that of "We'll Meet Again"), even whilst sawing into a sinner with an X-ACTO blade, sped up a few RPM's with each jerk of her plane. The item was a nice win, a bargaining tool and symbolic victory. He would not let it go easily. That could also be said of the Rookie cop, and Lord knew he couldn't very well lose her. Not after their little foray in his bunker, where she had pleasantly surprised him.

He was curious. He wanted more. He admitted it. He always could be more honest with himself, up in the air, all other limitations cast aside.

John smiled feebly. Well, these feelings  _were_  a nice little surprise, but he didn't have time to think about those, right then.

Instead, he tried once more:

"Listen to me, and maybe your crash-course in flying won't live up to its name."

He waited for her reply, sin-marked hand tightening around the controls, harder with every tense second. The approaching storm didn't share his patience. They were running out of time.

"Real funny, John. You...ah! _Fuck_!...gonna help me or what?"

He grinned at the small yellow aircraft teetering like a drunkard.

"Let's get you down, princess. This is my territory. You have no business in the sky."

Lightning cracked, just outside his rain-streaked window, followed by a cannon blast of thunder he could hear, even over the Affirmation's drone.

Truth be told, if he didn't get them both down alive, neither did he.

🜋

Such radio exchanges between herself and the Baptist were prone to end in violence, or, on a good day, unresolved sexual tension. But, to John's credit, he kept his composure, and Rook was too scared to let her wrath have any say. He gave orders carefully and precisely, as if seated right next to her. When he wasn't dishing out threats, goading her into coming out in the open, he could be quite pleasant. Maybe even beguiling. He was certainly intelligent, skilled at flying and public speaking.

Also, he was _fantastic_ with his hands. When he wasn't using them to carve people into totem poles.

Or, she thought, maybe that was just the overwhelming surge of relief hijacking her common sense, as the plane's landing gear skimmed the surface of the water. A wide creek had been their best option, given the circumstances. Whatever. She wasn't in a position to argue. The Seeds sure did like to put her in positions out of her control.

Thump! She was officially on the ground. Sort of. Her sigh of relief was lung-deflating.

"Good, now shut off the engine," John ordered, still in the air. She wasn't out of the woods yet. Up a creek and without a paddle. Even through the wallpaper of raindrops, he could see the brightly-colored plane, carried eastward, as the rain intensified the current. He knew from countless seasons in Montana, that creek would go from whimsical, to homicidal, in a matter of minutes.

Rook switched the engine off. The sudden quiet was deafening. The propellers stopped. Rain drummed against the roof. The cockpit protested as the creek picked the plane up and carried it along, like a toy sailboat.

Right. Current. Water. _Deep_ water.

Fresh panic set in, less blood-curdling than flying, but it sent chills prickling down her spine all the same. The sky darkened, turning completely black, casting everything in gloom.

Eyeing the rushing waters out the window, Rook called, "Um...John?"

He brought the Affirmation around, in a tight turn, flying parallel to a stretch of road nearby. The temperamental weather pushed, pulled against him. No stranger to extremes, he'd flown in worse conditions. Too much divine purpose in his life, to fall out of the sky with clipped wings. He didn't even want to think about Jacob restraining his laughter at his funeral as Joseph struggled to come up with a heroic eulogy of his little brother smeared himself to death, because of a little wind and rain.

Alas, he still had to concentrate. And whenever Rook was around, concentrating on anything proved difficult. She had a way of ripping through his thoughts like a cyclone, spiriting him to a place far less innocent, more vexing than Oz.

"Little busy right now, Deputy. But if you're that eager to confess..."

"Ugh. Never mind."

Rook glanced at the blackened sky, and her eyes widened. He was flying too low, too direct to be making a pass. Really? He just couldn't leave her alone!

"You're landing that thing? In this?" she asked dubiously. "Guess that saves me some work."

"HA!" John met her concealed death threat with hearty laughter. "So concerned for my safety, all of a sudden. Don't worry. We'll be reunited, before you know it."

 _Oh, fuck._ She wasn't sure if she wanted that or not. Gnawing her lip again, Rook looked around, as if awaiting an answer. The rain was really coming down, cats and dogs, lions and wolves. The water level was rising, rapids twisting the plane around 180 degrees.

Exhausted, all of a sudden, she drew her knees up to her chest. It had been days since she'd had some proper sleep, a proper meal, and it was catching up to her. Weighing her down.

A lot of things were.

"If you crash, I'm afraid there's no 911 to call," she finished. "Your bad, on that one." 

" _IF_ I crash, there'll be no need. Try not to contain your joy. Wouldn't want you to do anything rash, like steal and fly a pla-"

Rook unplugged and dropped the headset in disgust.

She pressed her face to the windshield. John's plane disappeared behind the trees, now swaying like Hawaiian dancers. The worst of the storm was still behind them, but not for long. Rook clawed about the cockpit for a life jacket. This was a boat-plane after all. There was bound to be one. There had to be, or else...

 _Oh, thank the Father and His Sexy Man-Buns_. She produced one, from underneath her seat, with a sigh of relief. She strapped it on, faster than body-armor in a narcotics shootout. Taking a deep breath, she cracked the door. Poked her head out. Her hair blew about her face in a Medusa veil. No John to be found. Wasn't that a good thing? So why did she feel such trepidation, in the pit of her gut?

Wicked-looking rapids, up ahead, and a sharp curve. A plane-tipping, woman-ejecting curve. Just her luck _._ She would have to try and make it on her own. Now this was a death scenario she _had_ imagined, first when the Peggies brought her out into the water, to baptize her, then when John held her under...

🜋

Unlike the night of Joseph's arrest, the night of her baptism was the first time John got a good look at her, the Succubus, the discordant Eris, the raging Harpie who had plagued his precious valley, freed so many of his outposts and his 'hopefuls' (hostages), the terrorista who had blown up his grain silos, thrown heathen festivals centered around the consumption of fried bovine testicles. 

Rising up, from the depths of the creek, cold, waterlogged, sputtering, putty in his hands, the Rookie hadn't been what he'd expected. That face, the one behind the voice that had met his threats with equally-violent, sarcastic retorts of her own, firing across the airwaves at each other for weeks on end.

John took a good, long look at that face. What he felt scared him. Humiliated him.

So, he shoved her back under.

It didn't matter, that she did her best to knock out his fighters instead of shooting them. The cult infirmary had treated more concussions than an NFL medic. She used stealth and subversion, whenever possible, drawing guards out into the open, before laying waste to their supplies, zip-tying and binding wrists and mouths (those that didn't resist, which many did, losing their lives in the process). John had seen the rage in her blurry body language, over his security camera feeds, but he'd also seen the agony wilt her, how she collapsed, when she thought no one was looking...

His fingers had tightened around her shirt as she kicked, stirring up the tranquil waters.

It didn't matter, either, that she'd negotiated several hostages, in exchange for medicine for a handful of his followers, irredeemable addicts who had taken too much Bliss, at risk of fading into madness and killing the very people they were responsible for converting. Yes, there were some amid his ranks no amount of atoning could save; he accepted that, and Joseph still demanded, in his unique, threatening way, that he find roles for them to play. He was even grateful Rook was there to cull his herd, rather than turn the other cheek, as his slothful self was prone to.

Hands bound behind her back, she'd used her head to flounder back and forth, trying to shake one of his arms loose.

But his hold on her was absolute. He would never let her go.

He even admired her dedication to fairness, to justice. He was curious about her, this young city-slicker, this insufferable millennial who changed her hair and clothes as much as a chameleon changed its shades. Even so, it didn't matter, when she spared a trailer full of frightened Eden's Gate children, that she let them choose to return to their parents or flee, to Fall's End. All of them chose their parents of course, those with parents left anyway; the orphans chose John, who, despite how he flayed grown men and women alive, had always been kind and understanding to kids.

Before Rook's baptism, he had brought those same children out of his bunker, down by the water that night, on a field trip of sorts. Soon, they would be stuck underground for a long time with their Family. He wanted to give them every chance, to enjoy this world, while they could. Breathe the summer air, listen to the crickets, run through the tall grass without fear. Small pleasures, ones he rarely ever got to enjoy growing up.

And, all the while, he knew the Deputy would be watching, bound and gagged, with the other hopefuls. Book in hand, he delivered a stirring sermon about hypocrisy, about the importance of sticking to your guns. Seated on hay bales like a bunch of barn owlets, the children had watched him, rapt, as they always did. He was good with them, each and every one, trying to give them love, wisdom, encouragement. Mercy. When time allowed, which was seldom. 

It didn't matter, that she had watched him as he carried around the more timid kids, trying to cheer them up. How he gave them apples, made them laugh with silly allegories, a few funny faces. The driving point of his sermon was that hypocrites were the worst sinners imaginable, and those who pledged to protect civilians, like police officers, were the worst offenders, when they went against their own people. She hadn't missed his pointed look at her when he'd said it, a child clutched against his chest, that handsome face grinning over at her so fiercely, yet so gentle with the young one in his arms.

John had gone transparent as glass, and Rook, who had read the  _Book of Joseph_ , heard disturbing rumors, that the Marquis de Sade himself could have penned his torturous childhood, suddenly understood a side he kept locked away, in deepest dark. A ray of light, cut through, sharp as the tip of a well-made blade with misplaced intentions.  

But no, none of those things mattered.

Because John had plunged her under the water, and Rook vowed to expose that hypocrite for the sadomasochist he was.

They truly hated each other, back then. If Joseph hadn't intervened, showing a bastardized sort of mercy, or refusal to let her be anything but a scapegoat, she'd be food for the fishes. A Montanan Ophelia, funeral-shrouded in Bliss flowers, instead of her symbolic bouquet.

It was from that same hatred, that raging wildfire, a seed of something-or-other germinated, despite the toxic earth. It grew between them, when he finally got her in his bunker, when they had a chance to finally talk, among a few other things done with their mouths, less to do with orating, more a reaction to the heat, the pressure, the tension, the freeing of repressed desires and frustrations and-

 _-_ possibilities.

Whatever twisted, unlikely thing was growing, she wasn't a stupid woman. She sought to stamp it out with the recent foray of hers into thievery and aviation. Set things right, put the boundary back where it was meant to be.

Not knowing she may stamp out their lives in the process.

🜋

"I hate water," Rook whined, clinging to the open door. Rain soaked her head and shoulders, weighing her down. "HATE it. Why's there so much water in this fucking place?"

Lighting crackled like witch-fire, cleaving a smoking hole in a tree on the shore. She jumped. Slipped. Nearly fell in.

"DEPUTY!" someone roared.

Beet-red, dripping wet, she looked up.

John Seed stood on the bank, his shoulders heaving. Sable hair matted against his scalp, overcoat weighted down with rainwater. He seemed...conflicted. His tattooed hands rested on his hips, above the pockets, where underneath, he would almost certainly have a gun or two on his belt. Then again, it was hard to read his face, let alone his intentions and weapons, in all the wind and rain.

He only appeared as an obstinate blur. The John-shaped blur waved her toward him. Pointed to shore. _Yeah, yeah._ She understood. They weren't exactly speaking sign language.

But, she just couldn't do it. Couldn't bring herself to jump. It made her sick with fear. May as well ask her to step off the side of a skyscraper, into thin air, or stick her hand in a box full of stinging insects.

"Come on!" he called, hands cupped to his mouth. Not really needed, he could be as vociferous as his brother.

"I can't!" she wailed, sorrier than a cat stuck...well, out in the rain. The knells and shrieks of the discordant weather muffled her words, sparrows caught in a funeral march.

She shook her head, to get the point across.

John scoffed, pacing on the bank, his boots sinking in the silt. What the hell was she waiting for? Did she honestly think he was going to try and steal the plane back, apprehend her, in this? He should be in his bunker, making preparations for the Collapse. The only reason he landed the Affirmation in this mess was because he could _never_ live it down, if Rook got away. Not after all this time. He would finish what he started. He wasn't a hypocrite.

Or that was what he told himself.

He crossed his arms against his chest, bracing against a gust that kicked up waves and tossed the plane around, while Rook continued to dally like a stubborn little girl. He glanced up. Forget arriving, the storm had found them. And it was here to stay.

Lightning flashed. It struck him, out of the blue, watching her cling to that battered aircraft for dear life, the way she had clung so _tightly_ to him, underwater. The extra level of terror on her face, even before he pushed her under, then pulled her up and saw a mirror there...

John rolled his eyes. Now was not the time to be soft. Sloth. He took off, running farther along the creek, disappearing from view.

Blinking water away, Rook held to the door, a regular Rose Dawson, trying to shut it as the wind pulled against her in a demented game of tug-and-war. Water sloshed into the cockpit, onto her jeans, into her boots.

"Ohhh God. No. Please, no."

Her only saving grace was that no one was around to hear her cowardice. The whir of something electric and loud whined over the howling wind. Growing louder by the second.  _The hell is that?_

She squinted. A wave-runner and rider crested the bend. John guided it through the waves easily, bringing it parallel with her, as best he could. He couldn't risk getting hit and flung off. There was still a big, yawning gap between them. One she would have to bridge.

"Jump!" he shouted, now with some urgency. The creek widened a mile or so ahead, feeding into the Henbane, where this little game she was playing could turn deadly.  _Sorry I lost the Deputy in the river, dear brother, she didn't swim so good. Please don't amputate anything._

"I can't swim!" she confessed, mirroring his thoughts. A regular dagger-thrower with her eyes, she refused to look at him, shutting them off to the world in her shame. A shame, that. There were mysteries in those, things his pilot's hands needed to explore. 

John laughed, throwing his sleek head back, rain pelting his pale face. "Are you serious? The fearless Deputy, scared of a little _water_?"

Her eyes snapped open with wrath. John's smile broadened.  _Oh, hello, old friend._

"Fuck you! I wouldn't _be_ here, if it wasn't for _you_!" she snarled.

He couldn't argue with that. She gave him the finger, for added effect. The plane caught some rapids, pitching violently to one side. She slammed her hand back down and braced against the door frame to keep from falling back into the cockpit, the whites of her eyes popping so badly John's lips cracked to keep from laughing, his shoulders heaving. 

She shot him an injured glare. Indignant. It was kind of fetching, he admitted, having her need him so. He held his arms out, his trim, muscular legs pinning him in place on the runner.

If she tried anything sly, he could always dunk her.

Rook sucked in a breath, gathered her bravery, and jumped with a rubbery 'squick!' of her boots,. Not with feline grace, or even a goat's springiness. More like a rhino, attempting a hurdle.

Naturally she missed.

She landed in the creek, conking her head against the green, plastic side of the runner. Her life jacket kept her afloat, but she seemed to have forgotten that, splashing, spitting, cursing so much the storm might have blushed. Not unlike the first time they properly met, face-to-face. John smirked at the image, reminiscing. He watched the spectacle for a moment longer, before he saw the desperation sweep through her, the phobia, about to drive her mad. 

His smirk fell away. Rook shut her eyes, inhaling deeply in a silent, primal scream that seemed to stretch on forever. It mortified him, and he never wanted to see her scream or in pain, ever again.

"Eep!"

Her would-be scream devolved into a peep, as deft hands seized her tightly by the shoulders.

"Not giving you swimming lessons tonight, Deputy. Another time, perhaps."

Muscles straining in his neck, John hoisted her up, laying her across the back of the runner. Crisis averted. He sighed, watching the creek sweep the Ryes' plane away. That would have to wait, too, until fairer skies. Joseph would have to wait another day, to punish him for some other stain that had marred his tarnished soul. This time, he had done as he'd promised.

The wave-runner buzzed as he wheeled them around in muddy, swirling waters, taking care not to let his valuable cargo slip. And Rook, though she had no water in her lungs, for once didn't utter a word, the whole way back to shore. Propped against John's coat, she needed her rest. Besides, there was no need. Gratitude sometimes went unspoken, when two people were close enough.


End file.
